


For Great Justice

by pendrecarc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymeme, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joanna is not at all distracted, and Sherlock is perfectly objective. More or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Great Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Response to an anonymeme prompt, and my first (likely only) foray into smut.

In retrospect, the fact that Sherlock had bothered to knock should have been warned her. Joanna was resting more or less comfortably, flat on her back with her buttocks against the headboard and her feet braced against the wall, an issue of Lancet propped on her stomach and a full gram of paracetamol working its way through her bloodstream. Perhaps it was just that she felt truly relaxed for the first time all day, but when he rapped twice it didn’t occur to her to do anything but call “Come in” and tilt her head back toward the door.

He was an odder sight even than usual from upside-down. She let her gaze slide down--or up--from the jet-black hair and pale face to take in his coat and shoes, though she had to roll her eyes back to see that far. “You’re going out?” she asked.

“Lestrade’s going to text in about forty-five minutes,” he said. “There’s been a beautiful triple homicide. I’m just anticipating the necessity.”

She held back a groan. “Will there be running?”

A quiver ran along the long, full lines of his mouth, stopping just short of a smile. “Not today, I shouldn’t think. Possibly some vigourous walking. Certainly a great deal of standing around at crime scenes.”

That was less than ideal. She knew from long experience that the worst possible thing she could do in this state was stand still. Five minutes and her uterus would be clenched in an angry, miserable knot; ten minutes and she’d be hard-pressed to care about even the most fantastic of Sherlock’s deductions. Joanna sighed. She’d been hoping for running. “All right, I’ll be ready.”

“I have every intention that you will be.”

That made no sense, but she’d learned to let nonsense worse than that slide by without comment. She pushed away from the headboard and braced herself to sit upright. Before she could, he held up a hand.

“It’s the twenty-sixth.” 

“So it is,” Joanna said. “Does that have something to do with the murders?”

“You’ve just started menstruating.” He stared down at her with cool consideration, as though this was on the level with every other observation he’d ever made.

“You time my periods?” she asked, torn between horror and amusement, though this probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

Sherlock walked up to the foot of the bed, the better to loom over her. “Not since the beginning,” he admitted, “but then you didn’t have any for the first few months, due, I assume, to the bullet that went through your shoulder.”

“Hypothalamic amenorrhoea,” Jo agreed, relishing the feel of the Greek syllables on her tongue.

“But your recovery is going well, and you’ve gained some of the weight back.”

“Yes, thanks.”

He rolled right on over the sarcasm. “We were in the middle of the Peterson case when it began again. It caused you some discomfort.”

“How did you know that? I didn’t--”

“Say anything, of course not. But you did approach Sergeant Donovan privately, which is unusual. I understand the demands of the menses trump personal dislike.”

Demands of the menses, what a ridiculous thing to say. “I get on fine with Sally Donovan.”

“And she gave you some medication and a tampon.”

Joanna had known hardened soldiers who couldn’t talk about that sort of thing without pulling faces, which she’d always found inane and a little insulting. Sherlock, of course, would accept the workings of the female body as scientific fact, the subject of academic interest, perhaps, but unworthy of an emotional response. This Joanna could understand. What she couldn’t grasp was why he felt it required discussion. “She did, not that it’s any of your business. I don’t suppose I could ask why--”

He interrupted her, naturally. “It was a distraction.”

“What, my talking to Sally?”

“No. I could tell the pain relievers didn’t work. You weren’t yourself for the better part of the case.”

Joanna winced. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed. “I wasn’t expecting it, was all. I’ll be fine now.”

“You’ve been lying on your back all morning in an effort to adjust your blood flow.”

“And it’s helped. I’ll be able to concentrate, don’t worry.”

Now she’d surprised him. The signs were subtle--the twitch of one eyebrow, the slight pause before he spoke again--but she’d learned to read them. “I’m quite sure you’re capable of ignoring worse,” he said.

“Good. Not a problem, then. I won’t be distracted.”

He frowned. “I know you won’t. I meant that it’s a distraction to me.”

That took her a moment to work through, and when she did her mouth fell open. She tilted her head back still farther to get a better look at him. “The fact that I’m in pain is...distracting. That’s--that’s bloody considerate, is what that is.”

Sherlock, of course, found the practical ramifications of what he’d just said far more important than the emotional ones. “I’m sure we can both agree I shouldn’t be distracted while I’m working.”

Joanna nodded agreeably. “Whereas when I’m at the clinic, distractions are always appropriate.”

He glared down at her, and she fought back a giggle. He couldn’t know how absurd it looked from that angle. “The point is that there are other things you could be doing about it, but you aren’t.”

“For example?”

Sherlock considered her a moment, then began speaking in that rapid-fire diction he used when he was fed up slowing his brain down enough to explain it to other people. “You won’t medicate yourself. Yes, I know about the paracetemol, but clearly it’s not helping, and you have access to much more potent analgesics, but you won’t use them because on a mostly-subconscious level you’re aware you have the family tendency toward addictive personalities and are desperate never to become your sister. That also explains why you’ve avoided the stereotypical remedy--”

“That being?”

“A glass of wine, if I understand correctly.”

“Alcohol makes it worse for some women.”

“Be that as it may, there are remedies you haven’t tried.”

“Sherlock, I can’t bring a hot water bottle with me to Scotland Yard.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

This was not going to end well. “What did you have in mind?”

Those ice-blue eyes bored into her, and all the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “I’m given to understand some women get substantial relief from the release of endorphins and relaxation of the uterine muscles following orgasm.”

It was just as well all the blood was still flowing to her head, because otherwise Joanna probably would have fainted.

When her tongue would work again, Joanna said, “Orgasm. You think I should have one.”

“It seems an obvious solution. In the next forty—no, the next thirty-eight minutes, preferably.”

“And you’re…offering to help with that?” she hazarded, because that did seem to be where this conversation was headed.

“Good, you’re following.” He sounded pleased.

“I’m not following you anywhere, you mad git,” Joanna said, ignoring the fact that all she seemed to be doing lately was following Sherlock Holmes wherever he happened to lead. There were lines, and this was an excellent place to draw them. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said, and I’m counting the thing about why you put those fingernails in the percolator.”

“That was a scientific necessity.”

“And this is what, exactly?”

“Convenience,” he said.

“Sherlock, I can’t let you get me off out of convenience.”

“I don’t see why not. It seems to be the foundation of most sexual relationships.”

“We’re not in a sexual relationship,” Joanna said, a hint of desperation slipping into her tone.

“True,” he said. “Nor am I proposing one. I am proposing a solution to all our problems. You will very shortly be out of pain, I won’t be distracted, and Lestrade will have sufficient evidence to make an arrest.”

“No. Absolutely not. You’ll just have to live with the distraction.”

“Joanna,” he said, leaning forward. He was ridiculously, idiotically tall, and it really wasn’t fair. “Joanna, there’s been a murder.”

Despite everything, she had to fight back a grin. “You want to give me an orgasm for Justice.”

“It’s in the interest of the public good.” He was amused as well, she could tell. “Thirty-five minutes.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

Now she’d offended him. “Of course I have.”

“We’re flatmates, Sherlock. We can’t—sleep together and expect things to just be fine.”

He gave her the narrow look that was the Sherlock equivalent of an eye roll. “I’m not suggesting that we sleep together. I said nothing about sleeping, and ‘together’ would imply a mutual effort. I am suggesting that you move down on the bed a foot or two, remove your trousers, and allow me to bring you to sexual climax. It won’t take long.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Sure of that, are you?”

“Quite,” he said, in the same voice he used to express satisfaction with a particularly fine deduction. “I’ve considered every possible concern you might have. What I’m proposing won’t entail any changes in our very comfortable living arrangements, nor will it have any effects on our professional relationship. You are a practical woman, Joanna, and I am nothing if not objective.”

He was serious. The realisation penetrated at last—unfortunate phrasing, that—and she scrabbled for another objection, anything at all to kill this conversation before it could teeter right over the edge of sanity. “I don’t want—” she started.

“Why not?” He looked down at her coolly.

“It’s not hygienic,” she said at last. Good, that was good. “I know where you’ve been, Sherlock. You spent the morning dissecting things, and earlier there was mould.”

“Do give me a little credit.” He held his right hand out to hover just above her lips. “I’ve been very careful.”

She could smell the clean, reassuring scent of the unperfumed soap they kept for cleaning up after blood and experiments; beneath it was a faint but unmistakable hint of latex. He had been careful. Why this of all things should have done it, she didn’t know, but she looked at those long and terribly clever fingers and her mouth went dry as dust.

He was still waiting. “Thirty-three minutes.”

You wanted to live dangerously, she thought. “All right.”

“Excellent.” He smiled a quick, upside-down smile and swooped, batlike, around to the side of the bed. The mattress shifted as he sat beside her, and Joanna moved automatically to sit up. He stopped her once again, this time with a hand on her shoulder. “No need,” he said. He released her shoulder and reached for her hip, one finger tracing lightly along the elastic waist of her track bottoms. “May I?”

She stared up at him, feeling oddly vulnerable in this position. She was not used to feeling vulnerable. She was, to put it bluntly, much more used to being on top, and she nearly said so—but that clearly wasn’t what he had in mind, and as she hesitated he had gone still, waiting with the same rare patience she had seen him train on delicate experiments. Except this time he was waiting for her, which he’d rarely done even when she’d needed a cane to follow him. She held back a shiver at the feather-light touch of his hand. “You realise there’ll be a bit of a mess,” she said at last.

Now he did roll his eyes. “I am aware of the physiological process involved. That is, in fact, rather the idea.”

Yes, well, point taken. Done with stalling tactics, she pushed off from the wall, sliding along the duvet and leaving it rumpled in her wake until she’d made some space between herself and the headboard, her hips lifting to give him room. He lost no time in hooking his fingers beneath her clothing and peeling it straight off, pants and trousers coming away to leave her bare skin cold and sensitive from waist to thighs. He reached her bent knees and shifted his grip to guide her legs out one at a time, pausing only briefly to fold up the sanitary pad with businesslike efficiency, then turned his focus back to Joanna.

“Well-developed musculature,” he said, dispassionately but not without interest. “As I would have expected.” His fingers skimmed up from one ankle along the outside of her calf, ruffling the fine hairs that she hadn’t shaved in—she didn’t even know how long, though he could probably tell her. Gooseflesh leapt up in the wake of that hand, and when he curled one long palm around the sole of her foot and slid the other up along her inner thigh, every nerve she had stood to attention. He scarcely seemed to notice her reaction. “Scarring, of course. Much of it superficial. Then there is this.” He paused at a stretch of shining skin about the length and width of his thumb. “There was a leg wound after all.”

She kept her tone as light as she could, though this was becoming more difficult. “Minimal tissue damage.”

“Mmm.” He raised that leg for a better view, incidentally parting her thighs just enough to admit a breath of cool air. The shock was delicious, and she wrapped her fingers in the duvet to keep from squirming. Both hands released her, the better to push the sleeve of his coat up past the elbow, where it bunched oddly but did stay put, then to fold his sleeve back until she could see the long stretch of his forearm. Still being careful, then. He settled in more comfortably on the mattress, his right arm hooked under her one leg as he held her open to further examination. “And this? A knife, obviously—longer and much cleaner than a bullet wound. The forgery case two months ago, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Sherlock.” Impossible, now, to keep the strain from her voice. He glanced down at her, still as remote as he’d ever been. “Do get on with it.”

His eyes flared with the briefest indication of satisfaction, but before she could process this she felt the sudden presence of fingers at the joining of her thighs and there was no longer room for rational thought. “As you like.”

Air shuddered through her throat and her fingers tightened on the duvet as one forefinger began to trace her, teasing at the cleft between inner and outer lips. _Labia minora_ , she thought. _Labia majOH_ as he reached the base of her and paused, then continued upward. He was clearly willing to take his time, for all he’d gone on about Lestrade’s schedule, and the slow clockwise trail of the not-quite-pressure was maddening in its deliberation.

“It’s curious,” he said, “the way an indirect stimulus can produce a response almost as satisfactory as direct manipulation.” His thumb slid into play, the very tip of it fixing just between the clitoris and her opening, pressing down until the skin and tissue ground against the ridge of her pelvis. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Joanna swallowed. “You’ve given it some thought.”

“Primarily in other situations. Interrogation, for example. But the principle has other applications.” A third finger, now, and this one dipped right into her, running a shallow course along the blood-slicked walls of her vagina. “Fascinating. I would have expected more clotting.”

“Not generally a turn-on, Sherlock.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem.”

It really wasn’t. He’d scarcely touched her, and she could already feel a steady build of tension, that peculiar sensation hovering just between pleasure and discomfort. It had been far too long, and he was proving as frighteningly adept at this as he was at everything from the violin to the production of small-scale explosives using only the contents of their kitchen cupboards. Without warning, he plunged index and middle finger straight into her, and she gasped. Her back arched, driving her shoulders down into the mattress. He spread those fingers wide, stretching her—his hands were far stronger than they had any right to be—and drew out slowly, carving twin paths of exquisite awareness.

It seemed wasteful, somehow, to put that hand to such a use. She’d seen it engaged in delicate dissections and complex experiments, had watched as he’d used it to take apart a crime scene and listened as it had coaxed bewitching melodies from a bow and strings, and now it was building a deliberate rhythm between her legs. And as for that mind of his, that most extraordinary of instruments, to have it trained on provoking a physical reaction from _her_ was both heady and obscene. Not to mention very, very effective. The moisture now lubricating the slow slide of his fingers was not just from her menstrual flow.

“You’re aroused,” he observed.

“ _Ob_ viously,” she managed between breaths, the pulse of blood to her clit coming in time with each stroke.

“But still very tense, which indicates an involuntary objection to the loss of control. You’re resisting, Joanna.”

As usual, he was right. She’d locked her hips against his movements, and her pelvis was a knot of hard muscle. “It’s taking some— _oh_. Some adjustment.”

He responded by bringing his thumb back to join the other fingers for just long enough to wet it, then twisted his hand sideways. His thumb slid up and over the swollen nub of her clitoris and she shuddered; it came back down again and she _spasmed_ , sending her feet sliding up the headboard until her soles scraped across the textured wallpaper and the weight of her body was pressed against him. “Much better.”

This time he didn’t wait for her to catch her breath. His thumb went right back to work, settling on a firm circular motion that had her head jerking back into the mattress and all the muscles from her waist on down clenching with every sweep. “Happy to oblige,” she gasped out.

“You are as accommodating as ever,” he said, his voice sliding into the lower registers and sending a shiver from her belly to her thighs. He was still amused, then, and she decided it wasn’t fair at all that she was the only one to be undone by this.

Never let it be said that Joanna Watson couldn’t give as good as she got.

“I am, aren’t I?” He was making it nearly impossible to speak in complete sentences, but she was determined. _Mind over matter,_ she told herself. “And you’re—God, Sherlock—what was the word you used?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Objective, that was it.” He dragged the broad pad of his thumb right over her so she could feel every groove and callous, and she had to stop to swallow before she could go on. “You’re always so objective.”

“A necessary quality in my profession.”

His index finger curled forward into her flesh. _God bless Dr. Gräfenberg_ , she thought hazily. “And you’re very good. At being objective, I mean.”

“I’m sure you do.” She could hear the smile in the low, pleased rumble of his voice.

“Usually.”

His hand froze, and she canted her hips toward him in protest. “I am _always_ objective.”

“What’s the point of this, again? Don’t _stop_ , Sherlock.”

“You’re the one who’s panting for it. Perhaps you should tell me,” he said. His tone was sharp, indicating that she’d struck a nerve, but he did resume his ministrations.

“It’s—yes, right there. It’s not because I asked. It’s because you’re distracted.” She’d regained enough control to force her eyes open and meet his gaze, which was narrowed with something very like suspicion. “Distracted because I was in pain.” That earned her a complicated twist of that long middle finger, and now she could feel the tension spreading up across her stomach, her nipples stretching taut against the light fabric of her shirt. “Sounds to me like you’re ignoring the facts.”

“What other facts did you have in mind?”

It took some effort to remember, and when she did she could only manage two words. “The pool.”

He’d picked up the pace, speaking of distractions. “What about the pool?”

“I—” He cut her off with a slide of his thumb up to the hood of her clit, pulling the skin away to leave it exposed and aching as his other fingers worked her from the inside. Her right foot scraped another few inches up the wall. “I saw your face,” she got out at last. And she had, first when he’d thought there might actually be a chance she’d been the one who’d set him to dancing, then again when she’d spread that damned coat open to reveal the explosives wrapped around her body. He’d recovered quickly, of course, but she’d seen what she’d seen. “So much for objectivity.” Her voice slid up a full octave on the last syllable, but she could see his face now, too, and knew she’d got some of her own back. She smiled even as the wave of discomfort-pleasure- _Sherlock_ threaded itself up her wrists and palms. Her eyes rolled back, and she had to force her next words out through a throat constricted by sheer want. “And you missed a scar.”

The last one, the one he hadn’t mentioned, cut an angry, jagged track from her inner thigh up to the softness of her belly. Pool tile made blunt but deadly shrapnel, and after they’d dragged one another up over the ledge, every desperate breath tasting of chlorine and dust and the sharp tang of copper, her blood had spread in pink watered-down clouds around them.

He didn’t let her say anything more. His thumb was back to its earlier work and his fingers thrust in and out, driving every coherent thought right out of her head until she was quite beyond needling him.

But she’d seen his face then as well, had seen half a second of naked panic forced back under a mask of intent professionalism. She’d told him what to do in a voice far steadier than she could manage now. He’d pressed soaked fabric down onto her body with the very hand he was using now to send her straight toward the edge, and as they listened to the sirens drawing closer he’d repeated her name in a tone both calm and peremptory every time she dared to let her eyelids drift shut.

It was the same tone he used now. “ _Joanna_.”

Just as she had then, she did exactly what he wanted. She let go of all pretence at physical control. Contractions rippled through her and light exploded behind her eyes. As always, Joanna came when Sherlock called.

He stroked her gradually back down to earth. When she’d settled, her lungs heaving and every inch of her skin tingling with reaction, she looked up to see him still looming above, his face closed and expressionless.

“That,” she said, before realising she didn’t know how to end it.

“Satisfactory?” A giggle bubbled up in her throat, and his defensive reserve gave way to a catlike look of smug satisfaction. “And successful, I hope.”

“Succ—the cramps.” She’d forgotten them entirely. She lay limp for a moment, gathering herself to speak with anything approaching real coherence. “Yes, I think so.”

“Excellent.” The fine wool of his coat scratched pleasantly under her leg as he reached his hand—his _other_ hand—into one pocket and pulled out his phone. “Thirty-seven minutes. I overshot.”

The giggle turned into a full-bodied laugh. “Is that Lestrade? You’re barking mad, you know that?”

“So I have been informed. A triple murder, Joanna. Do keep your focus where it belongs.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” She gave him what she thought must be a sated and utterly defenceless smile. She felt amazing. Certainly not ready to go running after criminals just yet, but she’d be there before long. Hand jobs, she decided, were vastly underrated.

“So it is.” He drew his fingers out of her, and she couldn’t help a little sigh of disappointment. “You’ll excuse the perfunctory nature of this encounter, but we are on a schedule.”

“You call that perfunctory?”

He gave a vague wave of his hand. She’d never be able to watch him do that again without blushing, and now she wanted desperately to know what he would consider a _thorough_ …encounter. She wondered what she’d have to do to find out.

In the meantime, there was a murderer to be found. It was turning into a beautifully deranged day. She stretched her arms out to each side, rolling her shoulders back and coaxing her body back to attention. It was slow to respond. Her thighs brushed together, and she became aware of the sticky warmth between them. “We’ll need to clean up.”

He raised his hand to eye level, examining the dark smears of blood she’d left there. As she watched, he touched the tip of his thumb to the tip of his index finger, cocking his head intently to one side, then dragged his thumb slowly down to the third knuckle. “We will, won’t we?” He looked sideways at her. “I’d hate to contaminate the crime scene.”

“Scrub under your fingernails,” the doctor in her said automatically.

He gave her a withering glare.

“Right, sorry,” she said, unrepentant. He gathered himself to stand, but she stopped him with a quick hand to his arm. “Wait, Sherlock. Can I—” She gestured helplessly at him.

He frowned, then his eyes cleared in understanding. “Ah. No, thank you. A generous offer, but it’s not necessary.”

He’d brought her off spectacularly with nothing but three fingers and his voice, and it seemed a far cry short of generosity to return the favour. “Sherlock, you’ve just— _that_ —and I—”

“Will very shortly be joining me at New Scotland Yard, which is all I require.”

“But you—”

“Joanna. Triple homicide.”

 _Sex,_ she nearly countered, but then she remembered who she was talking to. “Transport, right?”

His eyes gave off a flicker of warmth. Clearly she’d won points for remembering. “Generally speaking.”

She could live with that. “Just so you know, I’m still hoping there’ll be running.”

“Good.” He looked utterly pleased with himself, as well he might. He stood up, and the mattress rocked underneath her. “Will you be ready in ten minutes?”

“Yes.” She watched him go, coat swirling around his legs as he disappeared, his mind no doubt sprinting ahead to the case awaiting them. God, would she ever be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In the Interest of the Public Good (the blood and guts remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/378269) by [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity)




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